


He's a Beast

by faeleverte



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, Llamas, M/M, Mission Fic, Ogden Nash, UST, get-together, good things happen in medical, mutated camelids, well-dressed llama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:19:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1479403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The one-l lama,<br/>He's a priest;<br/>The two-l llama,<br/>He's a beast.”</p><p>Clint <i>hopes</i> the poem holds true for two-ll Phillips, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's a Beast

**Of Lamas and Llamas**

Clint blinked blurrily awake and immediately let his eyelids clang shut against the brilliant flare of overhead hospital lights. 

“So we lived then?” he asked. Or, well, nearly-asked. What came out was some weird collection of sounds that was nearer “Sillied lifen-an?”

Nat’s warm chuckle from nearby coaxed his eyes open again.

“Yes, Clint. We lived. Found an evac point, even. And you’re gonna _love_ who they sent to collect us!”

A roll of his head let Clint see Natasha’s brilliant red hair framed by the glow of a sunlit afternoon outside a large window, blinds open, a city that might be…. _Yes, that’s Santa Fe_... outside. The room appeared to be the standard hospital accomodations: four walls; one full of tubes and holes for more tubes; one covered in posters proclaiming the positive practices of cleanliness and a whiteboard for Doctor’s Orders; one with a door that presumably led to the rest of the hospital; and one with a door partly opened to the bathroom beyond, a window, and an ugly pleather loveseat that held one Natasha. Any room was improved by the addition of a Natasha. She was so pretty and solid and safe and…

_Ah! I have the good drugs, then._

“S’who’s here?” Clint was proud of his ability to almost make words this time. 

“You’ll see.” Nat’s eyes were cool, her expression neutral, but Clint was sure he could see amusement in the angle of the corner of one eyebrow. Or maybe that was just the pain meds.

There was a gentle knock on the door, and a short woman with long black hair, cut severely into bangs at her thick black brows, came into the room. 

“Hello, Mr. Barton.” She grabbed the clipboard out of the pocket on the wall and flipped over a couple of pages. “I’m Doctor Frieda Valdo. Let’s see how you’re doing here.” She started a recitation of Clint’s injuries, but he could have guessed at most of them himself: bruised ribs, broken ankle, various abrasions, minor concussion.

Clint read the upside down page hanging off the top of the file. 

“Spelled wrong.”

“Excuse me?” Dr. Valdo verbally stumbled to a halt. 

“My proxy on there. Coulson. He’s Philll…” Clint blinked at her as earnestly as he could manage. “Two ells. Spelled wrong. Is always spelled wrong. Dunno why. Easy name, Philllllllip. Nice name. Not short like ‘Philip.’ He’s Philllllip.”

The doctor, to her credit, immediately flipped the page around so she could read it. 

“So he’s a beast and not a priest, then, eh?” She pulled a pen from the pocket of her white coat and carefully, heavily drew an extra line to turn Philip to Phillip. “Like the Ogden Nash poem.”

From the corner of his eye, Clint saw Nat stiffen her spine at a footfall outside the door to the room. The doctor missed the motion and smiled at Clint before quoting:

“The one-l lama,  
He's a priest;  
The two-l llama,  
He's a beast.  
And I will bet  
A silk pajama  
There isn't any  
Three-l lllama.”

Clint felt the smile breaking over his face as he heard Nat’s sigh, a soft exhalation of resignation. The sigh was echoed from the doorway. Clint turned toward the second sigh, his joy ratcheting higher as he saw the man who had just come into the room.

“Hear that, Coulson?” Clint gave a wriggle, too high to notice the sheets were not terribly smooth under his bare rear. “You’re a _beast_!”

A sound came from Nat that might, in anyone else, have been a snicker. Coulson’s mild half-smile wavered, the shimmer of a breeze through a forest. 

“Yes, Barton.” The not-a-smile solidified. “How are you feeling?”

Tilting his head back toward Nat, Clint said, “I knew he was a beast. But not the llama part. That’s a revelation.”

Nat’s grip on the arm of her chair went white-knuckled and she closed her eyes. The corner of her mouth twitched, but she managed to contain her laugh. 

“I’m sure it is, Clint.” She stood and smiled pleasantly, the friendly smile she used for civilians on ops. “If you’ll excuse me, Doctor…”

“Stay.” Coulson snapped. And then he blinked, glanced at Dr. Valdo and softened his tone. “Please, Ms. Romanov. I’m sure Barton would appreciate your company. And I have to… take care of… something.”

“Yes, sir.” Nat sank back into her seat. She gave Phil a curious glance, but he pressed his lips together, face carefully blank. The doctor’s eyebrows bunched together, but she said nothing.

“That’s what Coulson does around us,” Clint told her seriously, trying to point at the crease between her brows. His finger, inexplicably, was aimed at the ceiling. “The little forehead thing.” He nodded, and the doctor’s brows climbed up behind her thick bangs. “But I’ve never seen him do that one.”

Another tiny sound snaked past Nat’s usually iron control (she would later blame it on exhaustion and _finally_ finding good theater).

“That’s enough, Barton.” Coulson’s mouth had gone all tight, like it sometimes did when Clint was pushing boundaries. 

“But I’m not!” Clint frowned. “I’m not trying to be a pain in your ass at all!”

“Barton.” Coulson took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. “Thank you, doctor. How much longer do you need to keep him?”

“I don’t see any cause for alarm at this point.” Doctor Valdo made another notation on the chart. “A few more hours of observation, and he’ll be all yours.”

 _Already am_ , Clint thought. Three pairs of eyes locked on his face. _That was out loud. Aww, mouth. Gotta learn not to think on morphine._

“Yes, Clint.” Nat leaned forward to pat his hand comfortingly. “You really should.”

Doctor Valdo gave the three of them an uncertain smile as she stepped around Coulson and out of the small room. Clint waved at her, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, and Coulson rolled his eyes.

“I’m going to find coffee. Romanov, please keep him _in_ the bed this time?”

“I was thinking he might do better trailing after you.” Natasha’s tone was teasing, and Coulson’s lips softened slightly, corners lifting into warmth.

“I would have you on desk duty so fast…”

“You would thank me later.” Natasha arched one flawless eyebrow. 

“Natasha…” Coulson glanced at Clint, who was turning his head between the them, following the tennis match of their words. “This isn’t the time.” He nodded to Clint, who gave another energetic wave.

“Bye, Beast!” Clint relaxed, letting himself sink back into the three-inch thick mattress and the tiny pillow. “He’s a beast!” He said it one more time, to remind himself, before falling asleep.

The next time Clint woke, there was flame in the sky but no flame-haired halo around the person on the loveseat. 

“Hey, Coulson.” Clint tried to sit up, wincing as his abs objected, but managing to get far enough to rub both of his hands over his face without pulling on his IV. 

“You’re back with us, I see.” Coulson meticulously folded the newspaper he had been reading and laid it beside himself on the pea-soup green vinyl. “Here…” After a bit of efficient Coulson fussing, Clint found himself reclining slightly with the head of his bed raised, sipping at a mug full of ice water. 

“Thanks, sir.” Clint fiddled with the styrofoam insulation around his cup. “I hope I wasn’t too… improper… I know I get a little…” He firmly told himself that he was _not_ going to blush like a schoolgirl with a crush. _No, that heat is just leftover fever from the drugs they have me on_. He looked up.

“It’s fine, Barton.” Coulson gave him a little tight-lipped smile. “No worse than usual, and better than some.”

Clint smiled back before looking back down at his mug. 

“Can I ask you something, sir?”

“I suppose.” Coulson’s voice was carefully neutral. 

“It’s…kinda important.” Clint picked a bit of styrofoam apart, crumbling it under his thumbnail as he tried to keep his head down, keep his expression and the laugh that was threatening to bubble up away from Coulson. If this worked, great; Coulson would laugh. If it didn’t work, well, Clint would just blame the drugs. “Do you know that poem was that the doctor recited earlier? The two-l llama one? I’d really like to learn it, ya know. Seems true of Phillips, too.” 

There was utter silence from the loveseat, and Clint looked over with a soft smile. Coulson was staring at him with a look of abject horror, and Clint gave up, head flopping limply against the uncomfortable hospital bedding to laugh.

“Oh GOD, Coulson! You didn’t think I’d forget that one anytime soon, did you?” Clint could barely speak for laughing.

Coulson gave Clint his best unamused face and raised one eyebrow.

“ _Hope springs eternal in the human breast_ ,” Coulson quoted. “But I should have learned by now with you, Barton.”

“Yeah,” Clint reached out, and Coulson took his hand. “Yeah, you probably should have. But you really never will.” 

Their fingers twisted together, and Clint couldn’t stop looking, watching their hands connect, touch, hold.

“So is this the time?” Clint rubbed his thumb along Coulson’s index finger. 

“Barton…” Coulson sounded helpless, and Clint didn’t look up, didn’t search his eyes, didn’t try to find an answer to what this was, where it could go, what it meant. They’d had that talk too many times already. 

“No.” Clint’s voice came out rough. “No, Phillip. It’s Clint. Please.”

“Clint, you know we can’t.” Coulson sighed, tired and heavy. Coulson’s spare hand reached out to brush across Clint’s knuckles and then pull away slowly. Clint could see the tremble in Coulson’s fingers. “ _I_ can’t.”

After one quick, gentle squeeze on Coulson’s calloused fingers, Clint pulled his own hand away and scrubbed the back of his wrist across one eye. “Then call the doctor and get me the hell out of here, sir. I’d like to head for home now.”

Coulson stayed on the couch, silent, for a long minute. Then he sighed again, cleared his throat, and stood up, lingering near the bed, hands kept carefully at his sides.

“I’m sorry, Cl..” Coulson’s voice was soft. 

Clint interrupted with one raised palm. He tried to smile, but his cheeks were stiff, and one eye seemed to want to water. He rubbed it again.

“I get it, sir. And I just want to go home.” 

He pressed the button, leaning the bed back a bit further to rest his eyes while he waited for the doctor to release him to a long flight full of Nat refusing to speak to either of them. Again.

**The First Llama**

A tiny llama appeared on Phil’s desk three weeks later weighing down a note that read “Thanks for coming to rescue us, you not-a-priest.”

Phil picked up the tiny thing -- barely an inch tall, carved from red soapstone -- and cradled it in his palm. He rubbed its wee head with his thumb before dropping it in his pocket. 

“Any time, Barton,” he whispered, scraping the note into the center drawer in his desk and giving it a shove to hide it toward the back of the tangle of pens and and paperclips and tasers. With a heavy sigh of almost-regret, he unbuttoned his jacket and sat down to finish his paperwork and prepare for a meeting with Fury. While he worked, he firmly pushed thoughts of calloused fingers stroking his own out of his mind.

**The Second Llama**

“You can’t get him that.”

“But _Nat_ , just look at him!” Clint held his hand up, a four inch tall fuzzy thing balanced carefully on his fingers. The breeze ruffled its real fur, and the sun made the tan coat glow golden. “We could call him ‘Philip the Priest!’”

“Clint, do you even know what you’re doing?” Nat’s long hair blew around her face in the mountain breeze. “The first llama was funny. This might be pushing things a bit.”

Clint twiddled a bit of the tiny fringe on the tiny blanket across the wee animal’s back. “I’m not allowed to make big romantic gestures with him, Nat. It’s… we’re not like that. Three years ago, I told him I was sticking around. I told him I’d be here when he was ready. And… if I can do something to remind him, maybe make him laugh... I know it’s ridiculous. But…” Clint sighed, petting the silly creature with the tip of one finger. “Besides, I bet he _is_ quite beastly in bed.” 

Nat wrinkled her nose at that, but then just stood, staring so long that Clint started to shuffle uncomfortably. Finally, she sighed and shook her head.

“You are not taking _that_ home to Coulson.” Nat flipped her hair over her shoulder. “That is an alpaca.” She picked up a different bit of fluff. “This one is a llama.”

Clint dropped the first creature back on the table, grinning and grateful.

“They’re all kinda camelid, Nat. How the hell do you tell the difference?”

“You know how to Google.” She handed a few Chilean pesos to the woman running the booth and smiled mysteriously.

**The Third Llama**

Phil was not sure what to think of the third llama. No, scratch that. He hadn’t been sure what to think of the second llama, but Clint’s pride and laughter as he presented it when he came back from Chile had been infectious. Besides, they hadn’t seen each other in three weeks by the time Clint shoved into the office with his hair sun-bleached and the tip of his nose barely sunburned. Phil would’ve have taken _anything_ being held out to him in Clint’s strong hand. 

This one, though...

“Is that… Captain America?” He held the small frame gingerly, trying desperately to touch it with no more than the tips of his fingers. Surely Clint was mocking him this time. This was no sign of affection. This was an insult to Cap. This was scornful. This was… actually pretty funny. And very well done. Original artwork, too. Where _had_ Clint found such a thing? Had he _commissioned_ this? Just for Phil?

“Yeah!” Clint was nearly shivering with glee as he bounded across the office and flopped onto the couch on the far wall. “It’s perfect! It matches _both_ your collections!”

“I don’t have a llama collection, Barton.” Phil tried to contain himself, but he was already picturing where on the wall he could hang the little cartoon. It was extremely... cute. A llama in a small blue suit, a bit too baggy, the tiny wings on the cowl a wee bit crooked, determined expression on its long, cartoon face. 

“‘Course you do.” Clint threw himself onto his back and ticked them off on his fingers. “One stone llama, Philip the Priest, and now Captain Llamerica. That’s three. One’s a curio, two’s a pair, and three makes a collection.”

With a sigh of defeat, Phil propped the artiodactyla art against the wall on top of a filing cabinet. Llama collection. Because what _else_ could Clint possibly give him. _Other than his lips, his hands, the rest of his life… Shut up, Phillip. A handful of llamas doesn’t stop you from being his superior. Wanting doesn’t mean getting._

“Thank you, Barton.”

“Any time, Two-ll Phillip…”

**Medical and Thoughtful Gifts**

Clint swallowed as he stood outside a closed door in medical, holding a small box wrapped with black paper and a small silver bow. He ran a hand over his hair and knocked, a brisk rattle-tat that belied his own nerves.

“Enter.”

Pushing the door open, Clint stopped and looked Coulson over with a critical eye. There was a bandage on Phil’s temple, and a scrape across his forehead. Swelling around both eyes hinted at _another_ broken nose, and the knuckles of both hands were bruised and scraped. The blankets pulled up to his waist hid any damage on his legs, and Clint resisted the urge to go drag them up and look for himself. _Just to check for injuries!_ But Coulson was propped up in his hospital gown, glasses perched on a gauze pad over his swollen nose, reading a paper. The small cup of coffee sitting on the tray beside the bed made Clint snicker; Coulson would probably have coffee on his deathbed.

“Barton!” Coulson smiled. His eyes were glassy with the brightness of narcotics, his grin too wide, too shiny. “I was hoping you’d come see me.”

“It’s your birthday, sir.” Clint held up the package for emphasis. “Couldn’t let you go without your present.”

Coulson gave a pleased little hum and held his hand out. Clint walked closer and leaned down to set the gift carefully on Coulson’s lap, on top of the now-ignored paper. Before he could straighten his back, a hand grabbed his wrist and Clint found himself dragged closer for… _Is this a hug, or is Coulson about to kill me? If this is a hug, I might consider dying anyway. Yes, this is_ definately _a hug. Why am I being hugged? This is new._

“Really glad you came to see me.” Coulson practically snuggled against Clint’s chest. And, well, that was weird. Not _bad_ weird. Just weird weird. “Seems like medical is the only place we ever get to really talk about anything important.”

True statement. Excluding intense discussions about Coffee and Pancakes, of course. Coffee and Pancake emotions were the only feelings they discussed without narcotic intervention. Except for that one time. The time after things went wrong in Phan Rang. After Coulson had dug through most of a collapsed building with his bare hands to rescue Clint. After Clint had made his promise.

Clint gave himself a minute to hug back, to let one hand splay gently across the expanse of muscular, bruised-black back bared by the unfortunate design of hospital gowns, to press his cheek against Coulon’s freckled scalp, right where his hairline had slunk back to a distinguished, seriously sexy last stand. 

The hug was getting less weird by the second, and that was… that was uncalled for. But, God, Clint didn’t want to be the first to pull away.

“What’d you get me?” Coulson’s voice was muffled against Clint’s sternum. 

_One archer, slightly battered, well-used, but nicely broken in. Mostly house-trained, thanks to you and Nat. Comes with a whole host of issues and insecurities that you don’t seem to mind, and a recurve bow. Thinks you’re the greatest thing since the invention of the arrowhead, and really hopes that you’re more of a two-ll Phillip-beast and not a one-l Philip-priest in the sack._

Clint forced his hands back to his sides and stepped away.

“Open it and find out. Careful. It’s kinda fragile…”

The paper was ripped off with much greater abandon than Phil usually employed in gift-unwrapping, and the box was open in moments.

“This is…” Coulson’s eyes were wide as he turned the small figurine over and examined the underside. “I didn’t know this existed! It’s authentic?”

“For as much as I paid for the little guy,” Clint rubbed the enamel drizzled down the ceramic llama’s back with one finger, “he’d better be.”

“I love Barney Reid.” Coulson’s eyes were wide and bright, a combination of genuine pleasure and whatever was running into his IV. “This is incredible!”

“Glad you like it, sir.” Clint didn’t stop himself from taking Coulson’s hand when it reached out. This was okay. This was what they did. This touch was Allowed.

“It’s Phillip.” The words were barely more than a whisper.

A gentle tug from their clasped hands had Clint leaning down again, and he didn’t pull away as _Phillip_ stretched up to meet him. His free hand came up to cup _Phillip’s_ cheek, and his lips were touching _Phillip’s_ lips, his tiny groan of pleasure was echoed by the same from _Phillip_. A tongue brushed across Clint’s bottom lip, and he opened to let _Phillip’s_ tongue slide against his own. Another sound that was possibly more wimpy-whimper than manly-moan slid out of Clint’s throat.

And then Clint was pulling away, horrified, certain he had just committed a no-coming-back-from crime, a sin against everything good, a transgression that would mark the end of his career, and quite possibly his life. He was Taking Advantage. Coulson was compromised, and Clint let himself Do That. And this was why they never allowed more than their hands to touch when one was in medical. History had taught them both better than that, and Clint had forgotten or ignored, or maybe just wanted too much, too badly.

“Shit, sir!” Clint backed toward the door, trying to keep from licking his lips, keep from chasing the taste of-- _No no no! Don’t think about that!_ “That was… you’re obviously… I’m so sorry!”

Coulson just let his head drop back against the bed with a dreamy sort of smile.

“When I can move better, I’ll show you what a two-ll Phillip can really do, okay?”

It seemed best not to answer that statement. Not to acknowledge that statement. Not to exist in a universe where he _heard_ that statement. Not with the taste of Phil’s mouth still on his lips, anyway. Clint edged toward the bed, and kept a careful eye on Coulson’s grabby hands, ready to bat them away or tie them to the guardrails-- _Don’t follow that train of thought_ \-- reaching for the little red-clay llama. 

“Let’s put that over here while you sleep, Coulson.” Clint was proud that his voice was only a little rough, a little breathy. Coulson relinquished his hold on the statuette, and closed his eyes as Clint walked around the foot of the bed and set it beside the cup of coffee. “He’ll watch over you while you get some rest, sir.”

“I like when you call me ‘Phillip.’” Coulson was watching Clint with his shiny eyes. He grabbed Clint’s wrist again when Clint reached out for the bed controller. “I like calling you Clint. I always do in my head. Call you Clint.”

All Clint ended up with from Coulson after that was a happy smile and a gentle squeeze on his wrist as he lowered the bed. Clint carefully pulled Coulson’s hand free and laid it back on the blanket before making his escape. He leaned his back against the wall in the hallway, panting as if he had spent two hours practicing hand-to-hand with Nat instead of spending five minutes dropping off a birthday present for an injured colleague _and getting the hell kissed out of him_. And then he glanced back in the room to see Coulson drifting off, his chemically-induced bliss leaving a shadow of itself hovering around the edges of his mouth. Clint firmly reminded himself it was creepy to watch someone sleep without their knowledge.

From the rolling tray, the llama was giving Clint a disapproving glare, as if that one stupid -- _perfect, fantasy-inducing, everything-I-dream-about-and-wish-for_ \-- kiss wasn’t its fault. 

Llamas were obviously dangerous. And possibly evil.

**Japanese Llamas and Making Plans**

Something had happened while Phil was in medical. Something involving Clint. Something involving Clint and…

Phil was still hazy from the drugs, but he couldn’t lie around in medical any longer. After a brief shouting match with his doctor-- _The pompous, obstructive, bossy ass!_ \-- Phil was switched from IV pain medication to pills. He put on a clean suit, and limped back to his office. As long as he remembered not to answer his phone to anyone who hadn’t dealt with him on narcotics before, he would be fine.

 _So warm, so solid, so good, so…_

The flash of memory was gone before Phil could quite drag it out. If Natasha had any inside information, if Clint had told her what had happened, she was playing dumb. While Phil sat in his ergonomic desk chair that somehow managed to push on every bruise he had, chin resting on his blotter, in a nose-to-nose stare-down with his Llatest Llama, Natasha sat on the edge of the desk, gently patting his shoulder. Phil lifted a hand out of his lap to tap the statuette on the nose and groaned at the aching drag in the bruises on his bruises that had made friends with the rest of his bruises. 

“He got me this--” _thoughtful, perfect, exquisite_ \-- “ridiculous thing, and I don’t remember opening it. I don’t remember what he said, what I said… I don’t…” Phil sighed and thought Llama the Statue looked terribly disapproving. “I screwed something up. He didn’t come by to see me again. I heard after I was released that he’d left for Japan. He left for a mission without a word to me.”

 _Arms around his shoulders, a hand spread hot across his back, callouses rough against his skin, that gun powder-oil-pecan smell of Cli--_ Barton _\-- filling his nose, his mouth, his libido…_

“I think I…” Phil looked up at Natasha, eyes widening as he realized what the sense memories were telling him. “I think I _hugged_ him!”

Natasha gave another sympathetic murmur and another shoulder pat. Her lips twitched with amusement or anger: it was frequently hard to tell those two apart with Natasha.

“I don’t think one drugged hug is enough to break him, Coulson.” She smiled wickedly. “Although the unexpectedly passionate kiss might have landed a few good hits and knocked a couple of chunks loose.”

“‘Unexpectedly passion…’” Phil jerked himself upright, flinching as his back protested. _Really need to watch being thrown through windows. Getting a little old for that._ “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I am not the person you should discuss that with.” Natasha slid off the desk and leaned down to press one cool kiss to the bandage on Phil’s temple. She straightened, walked to the door and paused with one hand on the knob. “Good luck.” She left the office door hanging open as she went, calling to someone in the hall “Good luck to you, too. And that’s an alpaca.”

“It’s a llama because I say it is.” Clint sounded both amused and very, very nervous. That trepidation was enough to center Phil, to let him pull his best Agent Coulson around himself as he straightened his tie and grabbed a pen and a file in order to look busy. 

Clint walked into the office, both hands behind his back, in time to catch Phil juggling the file and pen and his phone in one hand while trying to gently move the Reid llama to a safer location on his desk with the other.

“Need some help there, sir?” 

Phil tapped the llama’s nose one last time to tuck him closer to the edge of the monitor on the right and looked with a (hopefully) bland smile. 

“I’m fine, thank you, Barton.” He flipped open the file and pulled the lid off his pen. _Look busy. Look busy. Everything is fine._ “And thank you for this.” The end of the pen tapped the llama gently on the head. “I… I’m not sure if I thanked you before. My time in medical is rather… hazy.”

To Phil’s utter shock and unending delight, Clint blushed, scarlet crawling up his neck, red across his cheekbones, and a delicious pink tinting the tips of both ears. Barton looked down, one hand coming up to squeeze the back his own neck, while the other stayed tucked behind his broad back, hiding… whatever it was.

_Don’t think about that back. The shift of muscles under a soft t-shirt and Clint’s breath ruffling my hair. This is clearly stoned Coulson thinking. Must think like sober Coulson._

“I… You… There was thanks.” Still not meeting Phil’s eyes, Clint bit his bottom lip for a moment. “I was thoroughly… um, completely… I mean, you’re welcome.”

“How was Japan?” Phil looked down at the papers in front of him, unable to read a word of them. He waved a hand toward the couch in invitation, but Clint just stayed standing in front of the desk. Phil tried not cataloguing the fact that t-shirt cuffs, when pulled tight on biceps, make already large upper arms look even larger. He failed. 

_Mental note: make sure new SHIELD-issue t-shirts continue with the tight arm theme_

“Japan was good. Made the shot.” 

“Of course you did.” Phil looked up with a smile, and Clint’s blush, which had been slowly fading, flashed back into full brightness. Phil dropped his eyes back to the file and forced himself to breathe normally for three whole breaths. It was suddenly very warm in the office.

Clint cleared his throat once, twice. Shuffled his feet.

“I found something.” Clint waited for Phil to look up before he continued. “For you. In Japan. It was… He’s… Well, here.”

Something rather _hairy_ appeared from behind Clint’s back and was plopped down on the file Phil’d been trying to work on.

“One more thing.” Clint’s voice was very close, and Phil looked up to find Clint leaning on his desk, face only a foot away. “That file has been upside down since I walked in.” Phil’s heart stuttered and then shifted into overdrive as Clint reached out to brush his fingers along Phil’s jaw before turning and leaving the office. 

Clint grinned from the hallway and said “The on switch is on the bottom” before pulling the door closed behind him.

Phil stared at the doorknob for entirely too long, mind blank. Well, mind blank of all thoughts he would care to have recorded on SHIELD’s security cameras. Eventually, he shook himself and looked back at the llama (alpaca?) now waiting on his desk.

It was camelid. Clearly. Bit over a foot tall. White. Furry. Stuffed.

And wearing a _necktie_. Phil resisted the urge to make a completely undignified sound at the cuteness. 

_Oh, I really should just go home until I don’t have to take the meds anymore._

Picking it up gingerly and turning it over, Phil found the on-switch that Clint had referenced and flipped it.

A string of incomprehensible Japanese spilled out. Phil caught the word “coffee” twice. His laughter made the thing speak again. And again. By the time his well-trained ear had translated all of the llama’s phrases, Phil knew it was too late to chase Clint down and thank him… properly. _And stop that thought right there, Phillip Coulson!_

Phil leaned back in his chair, hugging the llama to his chest, petting its head for a long time. He wasn’t sure what to do with this. Clint was clearly done being subtle. Not that Clint had ever been subtle. Not that Clint would know subtle if it came up to him and danced the cha-cha while wearing a feather boa. Not that… _Shut up, stoned Coulson._

Also, just as clearly, it was Phil’s play.

Flipping the Properly-Dressed Llama’s switch to off, Phil set it on the floor beside his chair and looked down at the file in front of him. He blinked until it came into focus and read the name of the operation. _Well, that’s suggestive._ He frowned, turned it around and checked, and, yes, the words were the same rightside up as they’d been upside down, and this was…

Grabbing his phone, Phil dialed the extension for Directory Fury’s office.

“The mission to Minnesota?” He interrupted Terrance’s usual spiel as Fury’s PA answered the phone. “Yes, that one. I’m taking it. I just need one person. Request requisition of Agent Barton, Clinton Francis for the duration. Yes, I know that will require an adjustment in his security clearance. Tell Nick to get on that. Needs to be in effect in… five weeks.” 

He hung up, unable to assess if he was feeling euphoric or terrified. After five more minutes of shivering slightly and staring at the file, Phil picked up his well-dressed llama and his briefcase and headed for home.

As he crawled into bed, soft white toy cradled against his chest, he thought _The pain meds are really hanging around this time._ And then he drifted off to sleep.

**Promoted**

“Why aren’t we taking the whole team?” Clint folded his clean clothing into stacks on his bed. He’d been back from Japan for over a month and, while he wasn’t _avoiding_ Coulson, he wasn’t going out of his way to find the man, either. But _llamas!_ Llamas were cute. Llamas were fun. Llamas were suggestive, thanks to a two-ll Phillip, he’s a beast. If the llamas hadn’t gotten Clint’s point across yet… Well, Clint would have to have to figure out something else to try.

“You don’t know where you’re going?” Nat sat on the creaky chair in the corner of his bedroom, filing a nail she had chipped during their morning sparring session. “Do you know the _name_ of this operation yet?”

“File’s right there.” Fold jeans. Find the mate for another sock. Never, ever let on to The Black Widow that she knows something you don’t. “Haven’t read it yet, though. Coulson requested me, so here I am.”

“Hmm. Well, you should look through the file before you leave. You won’t need your tac vest.” Her fingers splayed in the sunlight to check the repaired shaping of her nails. “‘No lethal force.’ Just have to mix with the common folk and collect a bit of information.”

“What?” Clint dropped a t-shirt he was halfway through folding (wadding), and looked up to meet her self-satisfied smirk with confusion. “So why’s he taking me and not you? Or not you instead of me. Or whatever.”

“Read the file, Clint. I can wait while you do. You’re going to need to know what to pack, anyway.”

Clint rubbed one hand against his thigh before reaching for the black folder on his nightstand. The cover page read “Operation Llama,” and Clint started laughing. He skimmed down the front page, and his laughter choked off as he got to the bottom.

“Nat?” The name came out in a whisper. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Nat, do you know what this says?”

“It says that you’re going to a llama festival. Llllllllama. With Phillllllllip.” She slid out of the chair and wrapped one arm around his shoulder, guiding him to gently sit on the edge of the bed. “It also says that your ridiculous campaign of Phillip-the-Beast-baiting has paid off.”

“That’s… that’s not all.” Clint pulled out the second page, the one with his own picture and Nick Fury’s signature. The one that said… “My security clearance. It matches Coulson’s. It’s… I’m not his subordinate anymore. I’m… _Fuck, Nat!_ I have a chance now.”

“I see Coulson has some balls, after all.” Nat leaned in and laid one uncharacteristically tender kiss on the corner of Clint’s eye. “That will be good for you, at least. His balls, I mean. Although the promotion, too. Congratulations, Clint. You’ve worked hard to earn that. Both. Both the promotion and the man.”

She gave him one more kiss that tickled his eyelashes and then breezed out of the room, smiling over her shoulder as she let the door click shut behind her, leaving Clint to stare at his clothing and try to figure out if he was packing for a mission or a date.

**Operation Llama**

Phil glanced at his watch as he waited for Clint to pull around in the rental car. He was starting to question the wisdom of using this mission to show his hand, to finally tell Clint “yes” and “now” and “please” and “forever.” Well, maybe forever was jumping ahead a bit. A lot. He still wasn’t sure if Clint was looking for a relationship or a… thing. But Phil couldn’t do a thing. Not now, not after waiting, and wanting, and wishing. And now they were here, and Clint had agreed to the mission-- _Surely he caught the symbolism of llamas_ \-- and they had a whole weekend to meet their objectives. Phil glanced at the list of hotels and motels on his phone again. One bed or two? Only the nights they had to stay to achieve their goals or maybe an extra night to just be… together?

And then the silver compact pulled up with Clint, in his too-tight, too-worn t-shirt with that damned v-neck that showed the dusting of curls at the point, grinning in the driver’s seat. He looked completely relaxed. As if this were a typical mission. As if nothing more hung on this than the fate of the free world. As if Phil hadn’t sent him a file that was practically a fan dance that translated to “Get in my bed and stay there, you sexy thing.” Shaking his head to clear _that_ mental image, Phil smiled back and felt his shoulders relax. He could do this. He _would_ do this. Clint gave a saucy wink, and Phil fought the urge to skip the mission and get straight to the hotel room part. 

_Insufferable flirt. How am I supposed to function with those jeans on that ass?_

Clint climbed out to help stow their gear - duffel and bow case for Clint; suitcase, garment bag, and briefcase for Phil - in the trunk. Phil let him do all the work and then growled, “I’m driving.”

One of Clint’s eyebrows lifted and his bottom lip pressed forward in a practiced, sexy, distracting pout. Phil ignored him and slid behind the wheel. He could hear Clint laughing before the passenger door opened for Clint to drop into the seat.

“Bossy, bossy, bossy.” He clicked his seatbelt around his hips ( _Don’t think about his hips, Phil!_ ) and stretched his arms up, folding his hands behind his head. “I think I like that.”

Phil was _not_ blushing as he put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. He’d been standing in the sun, alright? His skin was just… warm.

Sitting in a car beside a Coulson that barely looked like Coulson, Clint wondered if he deserved congratulations for his promotion and this mission, or if he should have been given a stiff drink and a lucky charm. Because _THAT_ was just cruel.

“That” being Coulson. Without his suit. In a pair of jeans that were worn in all the right places. And a bluish-plaid flannel shirt, well-worn, unbuttoned enough to show off _OhGoodGodYes_ a bit of chest hair. Thick, wiry curls of it. Clint’s fingers itched to trail through it, find out if it was soft or coarse, discover if Coulson liked having it stroked or having it pulled. 

_Not yet. Not yet. Mission first. Not yet._ Clint chanted it over and over in his head. 

Clenching his hands on his knees, Clint stared out the window and wished he was driving. Over in the passenger seat, he had nothing to do to do with his hands. Nothing to distract himself from the constant battle of will to keep his greedy touch to himself. He shoved his hands under his thighs and started counting cows. 

There _were_ a lot of them, at least. Somewhere after one hundred thirty-two, Clint started dreaming Ogden Nash.

“A cow is of the bovine ilk….” he thought to himself, watching a field full of...

“We’re about twenty minutes out,” Coulson’s voice startled Clint out of a light doze. 

Clint sat up in the seat, disoriented, and announced “One end is moo, the other milk.”

Coulson took his eyes off the road for a moment to blink at Clint. He opened his mouth to respond, closed it again, and then bit his lip, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Reading Nash, I see,” he finally said, tone even. Clint willed himself not to blush. 

“They’re short poems, okay?” He folded his arms across his chest and hunched down in the seat. “Easy to memorize. Something to think about in a nest, is all.” He cleared his throat, fairly certain Coulson wouldn’t laugh _at him_ at him, but Coulson was laughing, all the same. “So tell me about this mission. What’s not in the file?”

“Most everyone here is just what they seem: breeders, ranchers, spinners, knitters, llama enthusiasts.” He shot a quick look toward Clint who shifted sideways as much as he could in the seat, trying to arrange his limbs artfully, give Phil a view worth looking at.

“I suppose I’ll fit right in, then, _Phillip_.” Time to test Natasha’s theory. Llllllllllama, indeed!

Coulson grinned, eyes returning to the road. Clint watched his shoulders relax, just slightly, his hands loosen their grip on the wheel. This was a whole new version of Coulson. A very appealing new version. Clint spent the rest of the drive listening to Coulson describe the mad-scientist tech that SHIELD suspected was being tested on camelids and watching the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed.

“I requested you for this operation for your vision.” Coulson told him. “I need someone who not only has sharp eyes, but who can process what they’re seeing. Quickly. Without obvious staring. And that means you. Practice your veterinary expert face. We’ll be there in about five minutes.”

As they strolled across the fairgrounds from the lot where Coulson’s SHIELD-faked credentials let them park much closer than the rest of the crowd, Clint found himself wishing he had time to browse among the vendors. Fleece, yarn, blankets, hand-woven ribbons, belts, and bracelets, hung all around him. There was a booth full of collectible llama figurines, and he was already planning the best way to sneak back and find another for Coulson’s collection.

It’d have to be something good, a real memento of their first weekend together. Something durable, that they could admire for (hopefully) years. 

_Not yet. Mission first._

“Livestock building is that way.” Coulson was consulting a map of the fairgrounds. “We need to get there in the next twenty minutes in order to check things out, see if we can identify the modified animals before judging begins in the first category.”

Coulson produced some sort of paperwork that got them not just into the barn, but into the stalls themselves. That was when a new problem cropped up.

“Barton?”

They were standing side by side in the door to a stall, shoulders brushing. Clint shivered at much-washed flannel rubbing along his elbow.

_Mission first._

“Yeah?” Clint hoped he was the only one who noticed how rough his voice had suddenly gone. _Not yet._

“I have no idea what I’m looking for or at, and... I’m fairly certain I’ve never touched a llama before in my life.” Mouth twisted, eyebrows cockeyed, Coulson looked, for the first time since Clint met him, utterly at a loss. _Also, impossibly cute like that. Fuck my life. Mission first._

Clint started to laugh, and Coulson pressed his lips together, a sigh flaring out his nostrils. 

“I don’t appreciate your amusement at the situation, Barton.”

“You just… your face… It’s…” Clint heaved a deep breath and clamped a hand around Coulson’s arm. “Come on. I’ll introduce you. They’re all known for being pretty gentle. Incidentally, this one’s an alpaca, not a llama. We’re starting small.”

“How do you tell the difference?” Coulson asked, cautiously reaching out to rub the fluff on the alpaca’s neck. 

“Alpacas tend toward adorable and fluffy. Llamas are more serious-looking, bigger, longer faces.”

Coulson raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying that, if I’m a llama, you’re more of an alpaca?”

“I… did you call me ‘adorable?’” Clint could feel himself blushing, but Coulson just smiled enigmatically and turned to go into the next stall.

The happy little grin that Coulson tried to hide as they started petting their way through the barn, patting llamas and burying fingers in alpaca wool, kept Clint chuckling. Coulson ignored him, putting on a show of cool professionalism until they reached the end stalls where the fuzzy crias were held. Once in the first pen, his grin turned into an out-and-out goofy smile, and he was _crooning_ at the babies. When he caught Clint staring, Coulson dropped the smile and raised one eyebrow.

“They’re cute, okay?” Coulson sniffed, lifting his chin regally as he continued rubbing the back of a wee alpaca. Clint had a moment of hysteria, laughing so hard he could barely breathe, that ended with him leaning against the wall, mopping his face with the back of his wrist.

“You’re cute, okay,” Clint teased, warm from laughter and Coulson’s delight in the crias.

Coulson’s ears turned a lovely, fascinating, _enticing_ shade of shell pink. 

_Mission fir… Or not._

Clint was unable to stop himself from stepping forward, couldn’t keep his hand from lifting, didn’t bother trying to rein in the one finger that reached out to touch, to see if the freckled skin was as hot under that flush as it looked. Coulson stopped breathing, lips parting as he swayed forward, leaning toward the anticipated touch, pupils widening as the blue in his eyes darkened to stormy gray. Clint licked his lips.

Screaming started at the other end of the barn, and Clint dropped his hand to his side, clenching it into a fist as he fought to keep from punching the nearest wall. 

_Almost had a moment… Fucking mission fucking first. Not fucking yet._

“I think we’ve found the altered llamas.” Coulson’s tone was blank, calm, but Clint thought he caught a hint of disappointment that matched his own. Coulson sighed as he patted the nearest alpaca cria one last time before drawing his gun and heading toward the sounds of crashing and general pandemonium echoing from the other end of the barn. 

Clint echoed the sigh, gave the cria a pat of his own, pulled a pistol out of the back of his jeans, and ran after Coulson.

Coulson skidded to a halt so quickly that Clint couldn’t react in time and stumbled directly into his back. And, _damn!_ this was not the time to be enjoying the aesthetic and physical attributes of a man in a flannel shirt. Especially not with that wall slowly melting into a puddle.

Which, huh?

“Aww, llama!” Clint shook his head a little sadly. “Why you gotta have acid?”

“Don’t… try not to…” Coulson shook his head. “How are we supposed to deal with this?”

“Hey, you’re the planning person,” Clint stepped back as Coulson backed into him, keeping their shoes away from the runoff of now-liquid metal door and wall. “I’m just here as the muscle.”

“If you were nothing but the muscle,” Coulson holstered his gun when it became apparent the llamas in the stall were more intent on eating from the hay-racks than on charging, “you wouldn’t be here. And, as you are more familiar with large animals than I am, I would appreciate your input.”

“If I had to guess,” Clint edged around the melting door toward the stall, “I’d say that there was some dispute over food. Used to see it in the circus -- one llama horns in on another, and there’s suddenly a lot of spitting and drama.”

“I am not making the obvious joke here, Barton.” Coulson’s arms crossed over his chest. Dammit, Clint should have been able to get him to say “Drama Llama.” Losing his touch or something.

“What obvious joke is that, Phillip?” Clint tried playing innocent; he knew he wasn’t very good at it.

Coulson’s reply was cut off by the sounds of a scuffle from a stall halfway down the barn. Another wall began to dissolve, and suddenly three alpacas and a llama were free and heading for the open barn door at a fair clip.

“I’m on it,” Clint took off at a dead run after them. Behind him, Clint could hear Coulson radioing in for SHIELD containment. 

Skidding around a corner, Clint found stalls overturned, people running, and general chaos reigning across the fairgrounds. It also appeared that the escaped camelidae had, well, _grown_ a bit. The llama now stood a bit over eight feet tall by Clint’s estimate. There was a creaking noise, and another stall toppled to reveal an alpaca, quivering slightly as it trembled its way from an absurd six feet tall to roughly twelve. It stumbled into another stall.

“Aww, ‘paca! I’d have gotten one of those ties for Phil!”

The second alpaca was nibbling daintily a display of hats, taking advantage of its unusual growth to reach the stylized straw roof of the kiosk. It shot up another couple of feet and shoved the whole cart to the ground before wandering off to nose at a pretzel vendor’s wares.

“I thought these things were supposed to be gentle.” Coulson caught up to Clint and observed the destruction with his standard butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth calmness. 

“So I was wrong.” Clint tucked his gun back in his waistband and watched the llama stomp through a booth full of yarn. “They’re actually completely evil. Maybe you should get rid of Captain Llam-erica when we get home.” 

Coulson grunted, and Clint saw the corner of his mouth twitch in a near-smile.

“Not on your life. Cap Beast stays with me.”

Clint laughed, pleased.

“I’ll see if I can’t round these critters up.” Clint started looking around for something to use to contain the creatures. “You go do that civilian-herding thing that you do so well, so none of them get-- acid-spitted? Acid-spat? Drooled on. Lemme know if we have any other escapees. And figure out where these things came from so I don’t ever buy you llama products from them by accident!”

“ _Try_ not to shoot anything.” Coulson gave Clint a pointed look before walking back toward the barn Clint was counting it a victory that he hadn’t grabbed a handful of that soft plaid shirt and just dragged the man in for a kiss. Also, that he hadn’t grabbed a handful of that nicely shaped ass and dragged the man off to bed. Double-win.

 _Not yet, Barton,_ Clint told himself, looking around for a way to get high enough to figure out tactics. There wasn’t much -- other than buildings -- to stand on. And the buildings were too far away from the animals. And where HAD the last alpaca gone, anyway. _Welp, doing this the old-fashioned way, then._

There was no halter that would fit the now-giant camelids, so Clint ran toward the sign that proclaimed “Trailer Parking and Animal Unloading,” looking for rope or bait or _something_ that could contain a llama, trusting Phil to get any remaining civilians to safety. A quick dig through a couple of livestock haulers had Clint heading back toward the main strip with a partial bale of hay on his shoulder and an idea in his head. So long as the animals weren’t actually rampaging, this should work.

“Heeeeere, llama llama llama!” Clint felt like an idiot saying it. “One-l lama, he’s a priest.” He watched the llama start to edge around the row of food stalls at the end, stepping delicately toward the offer of hay. “Two-l llama, he’s a beast. Just like a two-l Phillip.” _I hope. Mission first._ “So the only question is what’s a fifteen foot alpaca?”

The alpaca in question looked at Clint with big doe-eyes and ambled nearer, accidentally sending a funnel cake booth flopping onto its side as it pushed through the narrow gap between it and the cotton candy booth beside it. The smell of hot grease and melting plastic was joined by a steady stream of oily smoke from inside the mobile kitchen.

“Seriously am hoping people were smart enough to run from the giant mutant fiber beasts!” Clint muttered to himself. He turned to look for Coulson and spotted him nearby. He seemed to be just... lingering, just… watching Clint. 

“Phillip!” Clint called, and Coulson’s head snapped up. “I can’t see if there’s anyone in there.”

“On it, Barton!” Coulson moved quickly but smoothly, trying not to antagonize the animals further. He edged around behind the alpaca and leaned down to look through the windows of the former funnel cake booth. The angle gave Clint a perfect view, and he hoped no one noticed him checking out _that ass_ in _those jeans_ but figured that anyone who did would likely understand: it was well worth the checking. 

“Bit of a grease fire in there. No people, though.” Coulson straightened up, and Clint was able to drag his eyes back to the animals. 

The giant alpaca and the llama were both nosing in toward Clint’s shoulderful of hay which-- _hello, acid spit_ \-- Clint dropped as quickly as he could. 

“Where’s the other fluffy thing?”

“Alpaca.” Clint patted the llama gently on the leg as that was as high as he could reach. “I haven’t seen him since they made a break for freedom.”

“I’ll… keep an eye on these two.” Coulson gestured toward the llama and alpaca who were contentedly nibbling, side-by-side. “SHIELD containment should arrive within the next twenty minutes.”

“On it, Beast.” Clint grinned at the wicked look Coulson shot his way, and then he took off across the fairgrounds. Time to get this mission wrapped _up_! There was a suggestion in that look that Clint wanted to explore. In _depth_.

It wasn’t too hard to find the alpaca that had escaped. There were several melting booths in a row and, a few yards further along, a truck dripping on the ground where the front end was slowly dissolving. Clearly this was the path it had followed. The couple inside the three-quarters-of-a-truck looked surprised, but appeared unharmed and mostly unaffected by the chaos. Except for the obvious argument going on in the cab. And the waving arms as they shouted at each other. And the way the woman punched the man while wildly waving a file folder with some strange symbols on the front. 

Clint fished out his phone and pressed the speed dial for Coulson.

“Think I found the suspects.” Clint gave the pair a friendly salute and his craziest smile. “Their vehicle won’t be going very far any time soon. Remind me to thank the ‘paca.”

The woman started to shove at the partially dissolved door of the truck, and Clint stepped over to help her open it. As it swung open, he stepped back and drew his gun, gave her a cheerful wink and aimed the barrel at her with a steady hand. 

“How ‘bout the two of you just leave that file right there and step on out for me.” He dropped the smile in favor of his “serial killer resting face,” as Nat called it (Blake swore it gave him nightmares) when the woman started edging away as the man also climbed out of the truck. “You need to just stand here so I don’t have to fire this thing. It’s been _requested_ that I don’t employ deadly force, but no one made it an order.”

Five minutes later, and he left the two sitting, back-to-back, hands bound together with the man’s suspenders, beside their partial truck, their argument again in full-force. He made another call to Coulson.

“Suspects are… contained,” Clint reported. “They’re by their truck. What’s left of their truck.”

“Containment is about five minutes out.” Coulson answered. “I’ll send someone to collect them. See if you can find the last alpaca.”

Finding the alpaca proved to be the easy part; it would have been hard to miss a fourteen foot tall, totally hairless animal even _without_ the eerie green glow from its skin and eyes. Other than the color (and the nudity) it seemed to be settling down from it’s acid-spitting rampage, and it allowed Clint to walk directly up to it, looking at him curiously and calmly with its freaky eyes.

“Hey there, you monster.” He held up a hand slowly, ready to dodge. “You need to come back with me. Okay, baby?” 

The alpaca lowered its head and nudged at the few stray wisps of hay on Clint’s t-shirt. 

“You’re kinda cute for being kinda ugly, you know that? So come on now, let’s go back and find my two-l beast.” Clint backed up and made a “follow me” gesture with both hands. “Come on, baby. Follow Uncle Clint…”

The alpaca, burped, began to work its jaws benignly, and started to saunter away.

“Dammit.” Clint followed.

The alpaca ambled down the main street of the fairgrounds, across a four-lane road where a pickup and a semi slammed on their breaks and hit their horns-- only to be spit at by a truck-destroying alpaca. Clint was already dreading the reimbursement paperwork; promotions had their downsides. He followed the animal across a parking lot full of trucks and animal haulers (overflow from the back lot, surely), and through a small copse, down a small rocky bank to a river. There, it turned to give Clint a bored sort of look before lowering its giant green head to take a delicate sip.

“Thirsty, huh?” Clint walked back up to the creature and patted its naked side. The krypton green glow seemed to be fading, and Clint watched, astonished, as the alpaca began to shudder and shrink. He whipped out his phone again.

“Water,” he told Coulson as soon as the line connected. “Give them water. Seems to reverse whatever they were given.” The alpaca was back to a reasonable just-under-five-feet, and the green light in its eyes was fading. It was still utterly naked, though, so Clint added, “Mostly reverse it, anyway.”

Coulson gave a rumble of acknowledgement that rattled all the way through Clint’s skin. “What’s your location?” 

“By the river to the east.” Clint hoped his voice was steady as he answered. Not thinking about all the sounds he would like to draw out of Coulson. Not thinking about that all. _Not yet._ “Apparently SuperPaca was thirsty.”

“I’ll send someone to help you return your charge.” Coulson paused, took a deep breath and then added, “Good job, Clint.”

The phone went dead against his ear, and Clint wasted a long moment gaping at it. 

Couls… PHIL had called him “Clint.” Phil never called him Clint. Not on an op, anyway. Did this mean they were done? Mission over, time to get on to the, um, _llama-not-lama_ part?

“Let’s _go_ , SuperPaca!” Clint looped an arm around the alpaca’s neck, trying to coax it along gently. It just stared at him.

Fifteen minutes later, Phil saw Clint walking up the road toward him, the nude alpaca following behind on the end of a rope. The team of six agents Phil had sent out to help collect the animal was trailing further back, looking rather chagrined and very out of place in their dark suits.

“Wouldn’t let anyone but me near ‘im,” Clint called as he got within not-shouting distance. “Think they’d let me keep him? And his friends?”

“No. No, I really do not.”

“Aww, Phil. We could call the llama Phillip-the-Beast-the-Second and the alpacas Philip-the-Priest-the-Second and SuperPaca.”

“No, Clint.” Phil pretended not to notice Clint’s happy flush at the use of his name. _How is a full-grown man so impossibly cute?_ “I’ve seen your apartment. There is no way they’d fit. Not to mention having to explain to Romanov why I let you take home strays.”

“You’re no fun, Phil.” Clint walked forward until he was well within the circle of Phil’s personal space. Phil kept his breathing even and stepped two inches closer to Clint’s chest, giving one of his patented side-eyed-not-smiles that Phil knew Clint could read as “Are you _sure_ I’m not _fun_?”

Phil turned away before he could get caught in the sudden expansion of Clint’s pupils. There was still local law enforcement to deal with and paperwork to fill out, and then came the complicated part of trying to figure out exactly what was supposed to happen _after._ That look was a good indication that, at least, dinner was a probability. Maybe a goodnight kiss? _Maybe a kiss that doesn’t mean goodnight?_

Instructions were given for the loading of the mutated animals, and a team was sent to collect the other acid-artiodactyls that hadn’t left the barn. Then came the signing of the forms for the detainment of the ranchers responsible for the contaminated animals. The woman continued screeching (at her husband, at the agents, at Phil, at “research development scientists,” and at llamas, alpacas, and vicunas. The last part was clearly unfair, as the animals surely hadn’t asked to spit acid) all the way to the back of a SHIELD SUV. Phil privately thought that sticking the man in a cell with her for a week or so would likely be adequate punishment for his misdeeds. 

There were forms for compensation of destruction of property (and one for compensation for the local fire department’s time in putting out the funnel cake fire). There were forms for “animals: altered by mad scientist technology” and “animals: possibly contaminated by contact with animals altered by mad scientist technology.” He made Clint fill out half of those while he reassured everyone else that they would have their animals returned as soon as the safety of both the humans and their creatures was assured. There was one form that Phil filled out quietly, privately, and didn’t turn in with the rest of them. He would tell Clint about it later-- maybe, if things looked to be going in that direction-- and ask for a signature.

**Operation Phillip the Beast**

The glow of sunlight had long since faded from the sky by the time Phil finished the paperwork. He oversaw all remaining civilians, SHIELD agents, and local law enforcement as they packed up to leave, and watched the last of the black cars, emblazoned with SHIELD’s eagle emblem, pull away. Finally, the mission was officially wrapped and Phil could let the exhaustion come, let his shoulders sag. He was instantly clutched around the waist and pulled back into a secure embrace.

“If I hadn’t known you were back there,” Phil kept his tone conversational, “this would have become very painful for one of us very quickly, Clint.” 

Clint rested his chin on Phil’s shoulder. “Good thing you always know where I am then, isn’t it.”

Phil hummed an agreement and let himself lean, just a bit, just for a moment. Allowed himself to bask in the strength of the arms around him, the solidity of the chest behind his back, the warmth of the breath on the side of his neck. He slid his hands over Clint’s where they were folded together against his stomach, marveling in having permission to do so. 

“Gotta ask, Phillip.” Clint shifted slightly, nosing along the shell of Phil’s ear, nuzzling into Phil’s hair where it was probably rumpled from the pen he’d stuck behind his ear and pulled out over and over again. “Are we there yet? Is _this_ the time?”

With a sigh, Phil closed his eyes, thumb rubbing gently at the back of Clint’s wrist, considering how to answer. He took a breath and opened his mouth, but Clint interrupted him.

“Look, we just wrapped up here, and haven’t even gotten to wash the llama dirt off our hands.” Clint’s voice was a slow drawl against his ear, and his fingers traced gentle patterns against Phil’s shirt. “Want you to be sure before you answer, so just think about it and tell me after we’ve both recovered and cleaned up a bit.”

Phil couldn’t tell if Clint was nervous about what the answer would be, or if he was nervous about what his own response to the answer would be. Phil just wished he knew if the question meant “right now” or “starting now and going from here.”

“So, I’m thinking...” Clint began.

“Something you’re much better at than you usually give yourself credit for.” Phil tilted his head back to rest against Clint’s broad shoulder. There was a moment of warmth pressed to the side of his neck, and Phil shivered at the kiss; Hawkeye, as always, had hit a bullseye.

“Thank you.” Clint had gone a bit hoarse. He lipped another kiss just above Phil’s collar. “But, seriously. I’m thinking I haven’t eaten since this morning. And I know you haven’t, either.”

Phil again hummed, considering the various merits of his options. He could go to sleep standing right there, held tight against falling, well-guarded from any possible threats by one of the most skilled assassins in the world. He could also drag Clint back to the rental car and drive very quickly to the nearest hotel. Or, if there wasn’t a hotel available, he could always just drag Clint back to the car and see how creative they could get in a compact. 

“If I don’t get something in me soon-- some _food_ in me soon-- I’m not going to be good for much of anything but shaking and being grouchy tonight.” Clint brushed his nose along the smooth skin behind Phil’s ear, directly behind where Phil knew his five o’clock shadow was trying to morph into desperate-need-to-shave. And Phil should probably fix that before he tried to rub his own face much of anywhere. Unless Clint was into the roughness. And maybe not just where whiskers were concerned. Phil needed to derail _that_ train of thought before it reached the station.

“So come on, Beast.” Clint pulled his arms away slowly, as if with great reluctance. “I’ll drive, and you can pull up somewhere good on your phone.”

Turning, Phil started to reach for Clint’s arm, missing the warmth against his back in the cooling night air.

“No. Phil, just no.” Clint dodged away from his hand. “If we start now, I won’t stop until you have me bent over the hood of the car. I _need_ food before that happens. So… wait. We’ve got all night.”

With a sigh, Phil nodded and started following Clint back to the parking lot out back. _At least the scenery is nice_ Phil thought, sighing morosely at the muscular ass and shoulders he wasn’t yet allowed to touch.

 _And at least it’s looking increasingly likely that I_ will _get to touch tonight in some capacity._ Phil felt himself brighten visibly as he sank into the passenger’s seat of their rental.

Clint followed Phil’s directions to a Mexican restaurant with exceptionally high ratings and ran in to order while Phil stayed in the car, calling around to try to book a room in a nearby motel. Waiting for enchiladas, Clint wondered if Phil was looking for one room or two. SHIELD protocols dictated they spend as little as possible on accommodations, but Phil might feel that sharing a room, even for one night, was too much pressure for this _thing_ building between them. This thing they’d been dancing around for years. This thing that was both new, fresh, frightening, and deep, solid, familiar. 

_Please one room! Please one room!_ It seemed pretty clear that Phil really did mean this to be a litmus test of their ability to work and have a… something. But Clint couldn’t guess at what direction Phil was hoping to take their something. Didn’t know if this was a first date or the first weekend of a long term, exclusive kind of thing. Didn’t know if they’d be sharing a bed or sharing a goodnight kiss before parting for the night. Not that it mattered to Clint, really. Well, okay, so he knew what he _wanted_ , but he’d take whatever Phil offered. Gratefully. At least Phil was finally offering.

Clint slung the bag over the console and onto Phil’s lap. 

“Enchiladas. Smelled so damned good in there, I about ate your share on the way out.”

“Ow, hot!” Phil scooted the bag from his thighs to his knees to dig his phone out from under it.

“Any luck on a bed?” Clint started the car and didn’t look over, trying to sound casual, act casual, trying to _exude_ casualness. Trying to keep from letting on that the answer to that question was the single most important thing in his entire world at that very moment. Trying to hide that he was really asking, “How soon can I get you horizontal and naked?”

“Nothing yet.” Phil poked at the screen on his phone a minute. “Turn in up here, two driveways on the left.”

“Liquor store?” Clint smirked as he pulled into a parking place. 

“If we can’t sleep comfy, we might as well sleep drunk.” Phil was always practical and full of good ideas. “Only about 30 minutes until closing time, so get on it. And none of that piss that you keep in the back of your pantry. Find _real_ beer this time.”

As if Clint would buy something other than quality brew for Phil. Clint was trying to prove himself classy enough to get in bed with a man who wore flannel and jeans with the same elegance as tailored D&G. And fuck, that flannel shirt! The way it curled around those biceps like a caress. And the way those jeans displayed some of the assets Phil didn’t use for SHIELD. And GOD, the rest of Phil’s body under those clothes….

Shaking off his choppy, lusty thoughts, Clint climbed out of the car and entered the store to the jingling of a bell. The woman sitting behind the counter looked up with a sour expression, but, on seeing Clint, her pursed lips softened into a smile, and her eyes went a little soft. 

“Well, hi there!” She stood and came around the counter. “What can I help you find?”

Clint explained his quest for a good beer, as he knew that the microbreweries in the area were a must-try. The woman was knowledgeable but not particularly helpful, as she kept pointing out beer on the bottom shelf but not leaning down to pick any up, leaving the effort up to Clint. He caught her reflection in the front window, staring at his ass as he was bent over, so he added a little stretch, showing off. 

“You in town for long?”

“Nah.” Clint set the twelve pack and an armload of liter bottles on the counter and fished out his wallet. Better to use his own money, rather than trying to explain to SHIELD accounting that an afternoon of cleaning up from alien-mutant llama beasts required some self-medication. He could probably pull it off, really, but why bother. “Me’n my partner are just in town for the llama thing.”

“Heard there was some trouble there today.” The woman gave him a strange look, but rang up his purchases. She smiled warmly at him as put away his wallet, and then she surprised him by saying “Well, your partner sure is one lucky man.”

Clint didn’t breathe until he got to the car, setting the beer behind his seat before climbing in and turning the key. Not how he’d meant… not how he _thought of_... maybe what he really _wanted_...

“Find us a room, Phil?”

No answer.

Clint, confused, looked over to find Phil staring at him in the filtered light from the liquor store’s window, blushing hotly and looking… embarrassed. 

_Please don’t let him’ve lip-read that conversation…_

“I… I found a room.” Phil cleared his throat before continuing. “The people who’d reserved it didn’t show up, so it’s open. It’s the only thing I could find in town, and I’m starving, and it’s flatly impossible to eat enchiladas on the road. So I took it. But we don’t… you don’t… I don’t…”

Phil was stammering. Phil, the man in charge of everything, the man with all the plans, the man who could always find the witty retort, was struggling with his words. Weird.

“Roach motel?” Clint slipped the car into reverse and pulled out of the slot; at a nod from Phil, he turned back onto the street. “Can’t be worse than my place, ya know.”

“No. It’s not that.” Phil cleared his throat again and looked out the window, speaking to the buildings flashing past. “Half mile up, turn left, then follow the right fork to the hotel on the right.”

He coughed before speaking again, nervous, quick, words blurring together as they tumbled out.

“The only room left in town is a king suite with two person whirlpool tub, but there’s also a couch, so you can have the bed if you’d prefer to, mm, not share. I don’t want you to feel pressured to do anything you’re not comfortable with. You are under no obligation to do anything at all. With me. I know it looks like I’m taking advantage of the situation to, well...”

Reaching out blindly, Clint found Phil’s hand clenched so tightly around his phone, Clint was surprised it wasn’t crushed.

“Hey.” Clint squeezed his own hand gently around Phil’s. “It’s okay. This is okay. Sounds pretty nice. We’ll just… we’ll figure it out when we get there. I trust you.”

Phil relaxed imperceptibly against the seat, and Clint stroked his thumb along the outside of Phil’s fingers.

“There’s more.” Phil’s voice was smoother, but still tight. “I… I may have also called us both in on Monday, so we _can_ stay for the weekend.” Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw Phil bite his bottom lip for a moment. “If you want. If you… if you don’t want, then we can head out in the morning. You earned a break with how you handled yourself today.”

Clint felt a smile growing on his face. “Like I said earlier, you’re the idea man who makes all the _good_ plans. I could use some down time, and it’s pretty nice here.”

“Does this mean you’re going to provide all the muscle, since I brought the plan?” Phil asked dryly.

“I will provide whatever you want.” Clint glanced across the car and winked. “Anything you want.”

There were a few breaths of contemplative silence, and then Phil said, quietly, calmly, “You really should drive a little faster, Agent Barton.”

After check-in and an efficient sweep of the room, Phil lounged on the couch, sock-footed and relaxed, a styrofoam container open in his lap with one of the best enchiladas he’d ever eaten rapidly eroding under repeated assault from his fork. He rolled his neck, trying to work loose some of the day’s tension, jealous, as always, of Clint’s ability to allow his body to relax, cat-like, as soon as he found a place to park himself. 

Clint, as if to prove Phil’s thoughts, had draped himself across the bed, propped on a heap of pillows, after kicking off his boots and peeling off his t-shirt.

“There are still bits of hay stuck in it,” Clint had explained, shaking the shirt over the trash before dumping it in the corner. “Itchy.” 

Phil didn’t believe believe his excuses for a minute, but he wasn’t going to complain about the view. There had been an almost obscene amount of stretching as the shirt had been peeled up and over Clint’s head, and some ridiculous contorting as Clint stretched out the kinks from folding up over paperwork all evening. And then Clint had slunk onto the mattress, all swaying hips and flexing shoulders, sinuous spine and wicked eyes.

Every time Clint lifted his fork, the movements set off little ripples of muscle across that gorgeously-toned torso. Phil would have liked to wander over and chase each line with his tongue, but these were really fantastic enchiladas, and an agent learned quickly to never let good food go to waste. Besides, the anticipation was half the fun. At least, that was what Phil tried to convince himself of as he watched Clint flex and smirk from across the room.

“Hey, Phil,” Clint set his empty carryout container on a nightstand. “Hand me a beer. Cans are mine, bottles yours. Didn’t think to pack barware. Sorry.”

Phil gave him an unimpressed look, but added a little hip action as he walked across the room to comply. Clint wasn’t the only one who knew how to put on a show. 

“Shake it, bay-beee!” Clint whooped, and Phil winked at him over his shoulder. He leaned down to collect two beers, feeling like an idiot as he shook his ass while he did it, but Clint’s laugher was adequate payment for the minor injury to Phil’s dignity. Straightening, Phil saw the label on the bottle in his hand. He opened it as he walked back to hand the can to Clint.

“Seriously, Clint?” Phil took a swallow and hummed in pleasure. “God, that’s good. But, really? Black Helicopter?”

“I was mainly going for the coffee stout part, but the name was… well, you are The Agent’s Agent for the original men with black helicopters.” Clint grinned lazily, still draped across the bed like a satyr, all temptation and sex appeal, eyes full of shameless suggestion.

“I think I preferred the other name.” Phil took sip, frowning thoughtfully.

Clint lifted an eyebrow curiously.

“Phillip the Beast.”

Clint choked. 

Before Phil could react, Clint shoved himself up to his knees and wrapped an arm around Phil’s waist, pulling them together in a wet, desperately sloppy kiss. Phil flipped his own free arm over Clint’s shoulders-- _Oh_ GOD, _those shoulders!_ \-- and held on. Someone was whimpering between wet presses of lips, soft touches of tongues, bruising force of fingers tightening and hips shifting together, and Phil was both horrified and amused to discover that someone was him.

Pulling away with a gasp, Phil rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth before taking another long pull at the bottle in his hand, trying to calm the shaking in his hands. Clint took a long draught of his own beer and grinned, but there was a tremble to his lips. 

_Okay, Phil. This is it. Time to figure out where this is going tonight. Don’t scare him off. Gently…_

“Clint,” Phil’s voice was ragged, and he paused to clear his throat. “This is… I have no expectations of you. If this is moving too fast…”

Tilting his head back in a way that exposed the delicious, tempting line of his throat, Clint emptied his beer. He reached over to drop the can onto the nearest nightstand, and then stretched, popping his back. He unfolded from where he knelt on the mattress and gently lifted Phil’s beer away, setting it beside his empty can. He climbed to his feet in the narrow gap between the mattress and Phil’s thighs, and Phil gave ground, backing up a few steps.

“Five years, Phil.” Clint moved one step nearer; Phil did not retreat this time. “Five years ago, I woke up in medical to find you standing over me with this _look_ on your face. So sad, so lost.” Another step closer. “And then you saw me watching you, and you just, you lit up. That was the first time you held my hand.”

“I _was_ lost,” Phil admitted, shivering as Clint took the last step that pressed their chests together. “Not knowing if I was going to… Thinking you might... I…”

“A year after that,” Clint reached up to cup Phil’s face. He leaned in to brush his nose along Phil’s cheek; Phil’s shiver turned into a full-body trembling. “You were the one in the bed, and you came out of it shouting my name and trying to hit your doctor. That kind of thing can go to a man’s head. Might get him thinking that you cared.”

“I did,” Phil closed his eyes, trying not to pant. “I do.”

“Three years ago, you found me under a pile of rubble and kissed me,” Clint continued. His fingers trailed down the sides of Phil’s neck, one thumb resting along Phil’s jaw. Phil leaned into his palm. “I think you were actually more surprised than I was.”

“I was… thought you were unconscious.” Phil could feel himself blushing. Or maybe just heating up from the soft slide of Clint’s lips across the bridge of his nose. 

“You always perform mouth-to-mouth with tongue?” Clint laughed, and he was still laughing when Phil opened his eyes and swayed forward to kiss him again. 

Clint considered the other times he’d had Phil’s mouth against his own and decided this one blew all the others out of the water. The second time was Clint’s fault. He _hadn’t_ been unconscious when Phil fished him out from under a building and kissed him, but he was shortly after. How was he to know that kiss hadn’t been permission to keep going when he woke up, dazed from a concussion, high as Kilimanjaro on narcotics, and clinging to the memory of Phil’s hot breath against his cheek, strong fingers in his hair? So he’d shoved himself up in the bed, grabbed Phil by the lapels of his gorgeous suit, and tried to climb down his throat. Phil had pulled away and explained that it had been wrong to kiss Clint when he was injured. That he didn’t want to compromise Clint. That he didn’t want to damage their working relationship or SHIELD’s relationship with Clint. Then he’d apologized regretfully for starting something he wasn’t allowed to finish, and then practically ran out of the room. 

One week later, Clint got a written statement from his doctor that swore he was off of the pain medication and capable of decision-making. He’d taken it to Phil and told him that he understood Phil’s reluctance, and that, when Phil was ready, Clint would still be there. And then Clint vowed to wait him out.

It seemed to be paying off.

Phil had both hands shoved into Clint’s back pockets and was making tiny, breathless sounds and it was driving Clint wild. And _damn,_ Phil could kiss. Clint gave himself up to it, reaching down to slide one hand underneath the soft flannel shirt and up Phil’s stomach so he could rub his fingers in the thick hair on Phil’s chest. They both melted into the embrace at the warmth of skin on skin.

“Shit, babe,” Clint finally drew away far enough to speak. He wasn’t sure how long they’d stood there, wrapped together, exchanging breaths, whimpering soft gasps of pleasure into each other’s lips, listening to the tiny wet whispers of sound as their mouths shifted against each other. “Don’t take it back now. Please?” 

He wanted to kick himself as soon as the words were out. Clint had tried to be understanding, to be patient, to give Phil the time and space he needed. Had tried to never put any pressure on him. But _fuck,_ Clint was really tired of waiting.

“What?” Phil’s eyes were glassy, mouth red, hair standing up where Clint had gotten one hand in it. “Why would I do that?”

“You don’t have the best track record at kissing me and keeping going,” Clint tried to keep his tone light, teasing. He tightened his fingers on Phil’s waist to ease Phil’s guilty flinch and grabbed another kiss. Wrapping his arms around Phil’s body, Clint leaned in to growl in his ear, “And if you leave me hanging right now, I’m not sure I’ll forgive you. Prob’ly have to take care of myself, right here in this room. Get the bed all _messy_. Then I’d sleep on the sofa and make you sleep in the wet spot.” He rocked his already hard cock into Phil’s hip, hoping to show just how much Phil was wanted, _needed_ right then.

Pulling sharply out of Clint’s arms, Phil turned away. Clint panicked, wondering if he’d gone too far, wondering if Phil had meant that this was going to fast for _him_. If all the caution had been for Phil’s sake, not Clint’s. And, oh shit. This was going to get awkward. Clint took a steadying breath. No, Phil knew Clint wanted him. Clint had been quite clear about that. A few times in medical, he’d been fairly _explicit_ about it, in fact. So, no, not awkward, but if Phil got shy now, it could set them back to courting via llamas again.

_Breathe, Barton._

“You know,” Phil’s steady voice dragged Clint out of his agitation. Clint watched him walk across the room and pull his briefcase out of the closet before going to sit on the sofa. Propping the case on his knees, Phil opened it, turning it to block the contents with the lid. “There are policies in place that discourage getting involved with fellow agents.” 

“Who else _can_ we get involved with?” Clint rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. He pushed aside the memory of the last time he had a drink thrown in his face for refusing to disclose his job. “Too damned many secrets for civilians.”

“Well, it’s frowned upon, but we all know it happens.”Phil shuffled through a few papers before looking back up. “So there’s a form that allows for it. It, er, formalizes relationships, alerting SHIELD of possible biases for the agents involved, and allows either party to be informed should something occur in the field.” 

“You have one with you?” Clint asked, prowling toward the couch. “I’ll fill it out right now. I’m warmed up on paperwork after today.”

“I…” Phil blushed, and it was _fascinating_. The red started on the tips of his ears and then spread over his scalp, down his nose and out to his cheekbones. “I already did? Today. It just needs your signature.”

Clint eagerly grabbed the proffered paper, as well as the pen that followed, and scribbled his name with a flourish at the bottom of the page. 

“Always prepared, aren’t you,” Clint smiled fondly down at Phil’s bright, happy expression as he handed back the form. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“I have something else for you,” Phil told him, voice soft. He reached back into the briefcase and shuffled around a bit, bringing his hand back with something wrapped tightly in his fist. “It’s probably way too early for this, but I saw it today. I was going to hold onto it a bit, but you were right. This has been moving much too slowly.”

On his palm, as he turned his hand over and opened his fingers, rested a small llama, wearing a blanket, with a keychain attached to his ears. There was already a key on the ring, and Clint reached to lift it. For the first time in his adult life, Clint felt his hand tremble.

“That’s to my place,” Phil told him, and Clint’s eyes widened. “Just… we don’t get a lot of down time. I don’t want you waiting around on me if you can just meet me there.”

Clint opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out.

“Clint?” Phil’s eyes were calm, steady, beautiful when Clint looked down. “Now. Now it’s time.”

“Close the case, Phil.” Clint was cradling the little llama against his fingers, trying not to clench his hand for fear of crushing it. He carefully set the llama and its precious cargo on a nearby table. “Close the briefcase and put it away _right now_.”

Phil hurried to comply, sliding the case to the floor. “Why?”

In answer, Clint flung himself into Phil’s lap, straddling his hips. He pressed his mouth against Phil’s for another kiss, and Phil’s arms circled Clint’s back, pulling him in tighter. Clint broke the kiss to bury his face against Phil’s neck. This was what Clint had been waiting for, hoping for, planning toward for five long years. God knows, Clint hadn’t lived like a monk, but every partner had been compared to Phil and found lacking. Shivering with every stroke of Phil’s big, calloused hands over his back, Clint tucked himself smaller, trying to crawl inside Phil’s skin, to get as close to Phil’s heart as he could.

Phil wasn’t sure how he ended up with a lapful of trembling archer, but he wasn’t going to complain. He let himself go limp against the back of the sofa, stroking one hand over and over the back of Clint’s head and down his back, soaking in the softness of the strands of hair under his fingertips, reveling in the scarred perfection of Clint’s skin. He shifted slightly to expand his chest, making more room for the solid bulk of Clint against him. Phil felt a knot unfurl somewhere in his chest as he kissed the arch of Clint’s brow.

His heartbeat was thundering in his ears, whispering _Yes. This._

This was what had been missing from Phil’s life for so, so long. From the moment he’d been assigned to a team with a smart-mouthed sniper with a warm Midwestern drawl and a wicked glint to his eyes that made Phil’s heart palpitate. From the moment Barton had first wiped a smudge of blood off of Phil’s cheek while laughingly asking if Phil’d ever considered a career in cage fighting-- _Because I’ve never seen moves like that, Coulson. You’d walk away with the title in a damned_ month! From the moment Clint had handed him a cup of coffee as Phil waited for discharge from medical after his face had been stitched. This was what Phil had wanted, had needed, had thought he couldn’t have.

One year later, he’d watched the medics load Clint’s limp, bloodied body onto a helicopter, and he knew that they were carrying his heart on that stretcher. Somewhere between pancakes and bacon and learning to trust Clint as his eyes, between fresh cups of coffee appearing at his elbow during late debriefs and MREs shared in the bucketing rain of a South American forest, between quiet talks about their pasts and families and loud trash-talking while watching baseball, Phil had fallen in love. Hopelessly, helplessly, permanently in love.

Clint nearly purred as Phil stroked his back, shifting enough to stir some inside Phil’s jeans. Phil slid the fingers of one hand along Clint’s shoulder, up his neck, and along his jaw, pulling his face up. He hesitated over Clint’s mouth, sharing air, breathing him in, before leaning down for another enchilada-and-beer flavored kiss, tongue gently brushing the tip of Clint’s before Phil pulled back to lean his forehead against Clint’s. He was overwhelmed, completely out of his element, and could not think of a word to say. He stared into Clint’s gorgeous eyes and tried to _look_ his love.

“Phillip …” Clint smiled, expression a little helpless. “Phillip.”

Tightening his arms, Phil drew Clint back into a kiss, licking along Clint’s teeth, shifting so he could stroke one palm down Clint’s sculpted chest. Clint groaned against his mouth, and Phil’s heartbeat sped up. He deepened the kiss, both hands sliding over Clint’s skin, raising goosebumps in their wake.

“What do you want to do now?” Phil’s voice was ragged as he drew back only far enough to speak, lips brushing Clint’s on every word.

“So we have this nice big room, and two whole nights.” Clint leaned back and waved one hand grandly. “You have any plans?” 

“Well, I was enjoying this moment right here.” Phil pulled Clint in to press another kiss to his mouth, letting one hand brush across the skin above Clint’s waistband. Clint shivered against him, goosebumps breaking out behind the path of Phil’s fingers. “You’re more than welcome to sit on me all you want.”

“Oh, I can work with _that_.” Clint rolled his hips against Phil’s, giving Phil a preview of the swelling in Clint’s too-tight jeans. He nosed his way up the side of Phil’s neck and found Phil’s earlobe, worrying it gently with his teeth.

“You think you’re making the calls on this one, Agent Barton?” Phil pulled his best Agent Coulson on and raised one eyebrow. 

“You want to direct this mission?” Clint growled, gently biting the side of Phil’s neck. Phil’s cock twitched at the tiny hint of pain. “Then you’re going to have to _take_ command.”

Phil grinned wolfishly and planted the soles of his feet firmly on the ground, levering Clint over and slamming him onto the couch. Clint made a breathy little sound as Phil laughingly collapsed on top of him. 

“God, Clint,” Phil wriggled himself further onto the couch so he could nibble at one of Clint’s massive shoulders. “You look like a god, have the skills of a panther, and you make sounds like a squeaky toy that’s squeezed too hard. I don’t know whether to fuck you or just throw you around to make you make that noise some more.”

“The first one,” Clint said, wrapping his arms around Phil’s waist and dragging him up for a kiss. “My vote goes for the fucking option.”

Their mouths locked together and Phil sighed, relaxing against the muscular form beneath him, sinking into the warmth and solidness, the familiarity and sparkle of electricity that burned every time Clint’s hands moved against Phil’s back. Clint stretched one foot up to the arm of the sofa, the other dropping to the floor. Phil shifted until he was slotted between Clint’s muscular thighs, one hand wrapped around the back of Clint’s neck to control the angle of the kiss, the other shoved under Clint’s hip to knead a handful of ass. It flexed in his palm as Clint rocked against him, every drag of the bulge in Clint’s jeans met by matching hardness in Phil’s.

Their bodies moved together, Phil tracing the tendons and muscles of Clint’s neck with his lips, his tongue, his teeth, until Clint was whimpering under him, hands gone frantic as they scrabbled for grip on Phil’s back.

“Phillip,” Clint panted. “Baby, please, gotta get this shirt off you. Wanna… please!”

The shirt was unbuttoned as quickly as Phil could manage, but before he could push it off one of Clint’s hands was twisting in the thick hair on Phil’s chest, the other hand grabbing at Phil’s shoulder to pull him back for another frantic kiss. Phil caught himself on the arm of the couch with a hand on either side of Clint’s head. Kissing Clint in this position involved a deep flex of Phil’s shoulders, and Phil felt the rumbling moan of approval Clint gave as his hand scratched at the knots of Phil’s muscles. 

“God, look at you, Phillip,” Clint slurred half the sentence, dragging his lips against Phil’s. “You’re beautiful, so fucking perfect.” 

And, damn if that didn’t just… Phil still didn’t understand what it was that Clint saw in him, but he was at least beginning to accept that Clint _did_ see it. 

_Time to move things along._

“Come on, Barton.” Phil pushed himself reluctantly off of Clint. “Let’s shift this a bit.”

“You want it shifted,” Clint tipped his head over the edge of the couch to look at Phil upside down, “you do the shifting.”

Phil squatted beside the couch, locked both arms around Clint’s waist and heaved, easily dragging Clint’s massive torso over one shoulder and forcing himself to his feet.

“I can do that,” Phil said, patting the ass beside his ear while Clint laughed from halfway down Phil’s back. Clint’s weight made him stagger slightly, but Phil walked as steadily toward the bed as he could manage.

“At least the view is good from here!” Clint pinched Phil’s ass, and Phil nearly missed a step.

“Stop that!” Phil flung with his whole upper body, throwing Clint onto the mattress and climbed up after him. Phil grabbed at the fly of Clint’s jeans, and he fumbled the buttons, fingers not working with their usual efficiency. “So the first part of the plan is sucking you until you scream.”

“And after that?” Clint arched his back, lifting his hips to facilitate the removal of his pants. 

Phil’s mouth went completely dry as he found that Clint had gone commando for the day. Ass bare under his jeans for the entire mission.

_Never getting that image out of my head. Great. Because I need one more thing about Clint to distract me._

Clearing his throat-- twice-- Phil managed to choke out a reply. “After that, we’ll see how far along in the process we are and reevaluate.”

“Please, baby, talk bossman to me!” Clint laughed and flung himself wide on the bed, arms and legs spread, chin up and throat exposed. 

Ignoring an invitation like that was just plain rude, so Phil stretched across Clint’s sprawl and nipped at that glorious expanse of delicate neck. Clint rumbled happily under him, and Phil began working his way down the magnificent length of Clint’s body, licking at Clint’s sternum, gently biting one nipple and then the other as Clint writhed and shouted. Phil took his time mapping the peaks of Clint’s ribs under their padding of muscle, kissing each as he shifted lower, delighting in finally having permission to touch, to worship . He scraped his five o’clock shadow across the soft skin of Clint’s flat stomach, reveling in the flex of those peerless six-pack abs under his cheek. He finally arranged himself between Clint’s legs and pressed a kiss just to the inside of one splendid hipbone.

The view from there was gorgeous: Clint’s perfectly honed body laid out like an offering, cock red and hard and jumping at every sensation as Phil ran his fingers along Clint’s skin. He bit at the meat on one thigh experimentally, mentally recording the whine it elicited to play back later, when one or the other of them was on a mission alone. 

“Phillip,” Clint’s voice was barely audible, breathless with desire, “please!”

Lifting his head, Phil found Clint propped up on his elbows, watching Phil’s progress with bright eyes. Moving slowly, not looking away from the delighted surprise on Clint’s face, Phil opened his mouth and swallowed down Clint’s cock. Clint gasped again, and Phil took the sound as encouragement, pulling out every trick he’d ever learned. It had been a few years, but surely giving head wasn’t something you just forgot how to do. 

_Just like riding a bike, Coulson._ Phil twisted his tongue around the tip before pressing back down, sucking as he went. A few more flourishes of tongue and lips had Clint shaking apart, shouting nonsense and thrashing as he began to lose control.

“Phil! God! Phillip!’ Clint thrashed around, rumpling the covers and then grabbing handfuls of the comforter. Phil slid off with a pop. 

“You can grab my hair.” Phil stroked a palm across Clint’s stomach. “I don’t mind.”

“Gonna kill me.” Clint untangled one hand and reached out. Phil nuzzled against the calloused palm when Clint rested it against his cheek. “You’re so fucking sexy, it’s gonna kill me.”

Phil felt himself blushing. 

“Clint, I don’t… I still don’t understand.” He kissed the soft skin on the inside of Clint’s thigh reverently. “I’m not sure ‘sexy’ is an adjective that’s been applied to me since my 40th birthday.”

“Then you’re fucking the wrong people.” Clint’s tone was brusque. He sat up, grabbing Phil by his arms and dragging him further up the bed. “Look at you, Phillip.” 

Phil sighed contentedly as Clint pressed his hands to Phil’s ribcage, under the unbuttoned flaps of his flannel shirt. 

“The muscles on this chest are incredible, and to have that _hair_ covering them… bonus!” Clint huffed as he stroked one hand across Phil’s chest. He tweaked a nipple on his way past, and Phil arched his back, groaning quietly. “And then there’s that. God, Phillip, you’re so fucking hot. Knew this was it from the first time we kissed.” He mouthed lightly over Phil’s lips. “Missed this; every day since Cambodia I’ve missed this.”

“You have it now,” Phil whispered, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry it took so long, but you have me now.”

They sank into one another, arms holding tightly, exchanging soft kisses. Phil lost himself in the kiss, devouring the soft sounds that spilled from Clint’s lips. He closed his eyes, tangled his fingers in Clint’s rumpled hair and let go, relaxing with the coiled power of Clint wrapped around him. Clint’s hands stayed busy touching gently all over Phil’s chest, stroking along his back, tracing lightly along nearly-forgotten scars. Closing his eyes, Phil relaxed under the wave of bliss, contentment, pleasure until he felt Clint’s thigh slide between his legs. He threw his head back, moaning as he rode along the hard muscle. 

“Need to move this along, Clint.” Phil shoved himself up on his elbows. He couldn’t tell when the shaking had started in his own hands, but he could feel a rising wave of _Yes, Want, Need_ sweeping across his gut. “Really, really need to move this along.”

“We’ve got all night, babe.” Clint grinned teasingly, but he rolled them both to their sides and reached down to push at Phil’s shirt. Phil sat up to pull it off, and Clint just stared. He blinked a few times and tugged at Phil’s waistband. “Let’s at least both be naked. Been wanting to see forever.”

“Barton,” Phil’s let his voice slip into Agent Coulson, but he was unable to keep the amused smirk from growing on his face. “We have seen each other unclothed many times in many different circumstances, some of which even allowed for a few lingering glances.”

“I have tried _really hard_ to be a gentlem… Wait.” Clint sat up, crowding into Phil’s chest. “Wait wait wait. You’re telling me you were looking? How is that fair?”

“Who said anything about fair?” Phil caught Clint’s arms and shoved him back down, kissing him hard. Clint whimpered under his onslaught, and Phil shivered as Clint reached up to touch: shoulders, biceps, chest, abs. Phil slapped Clint’s hands away as they wandered back to his jeans and rose, standing precariously on the bed. “Here ya go, Clint. Have a look.”

Fighting down a blush at his own daring, he quickly unfastened his jeans and pushed them down, taking his deep blue boxers with them. His skin ran hot at Clint’s hungry look as Phil balanced and bobbled his way out of his pants.

“Goddamn, Phillip!” Clint breathed, sitting up and stroking his palms up Phil’s thighs. “Where the _hell_ have you been hiding that thing? And, much more importantly, _please_ don’t hide it anymore. Get it down here for me to play with.”

Phil grinned, and stretched. _A little teasing never hurt._ Clint stared up at him with huge eyes, mouth hanging open. He flopped back to the bed and made a frantic “come down here” gesture.

“Impatient.” The deep rumble of Phil’s voice _did things_ to Clint. Mostly in his groin. And Phil dropping on top of him, flattening him to the bed, pinning his wrists up by his head did even _more_ things to Clint. He moaned his approval of the man-handling, and Phil bit at Clint’s mouth before licking his way into Clint’s mouth, brushing along teeth, tongue and the inside of Clint’s lips. 

“Fuck,” Clint growled. “So fucking horny. Want you so goddamned bad, Phillip. Need you.”

His hips bucked up into Phil, one leg curving up, tightening around Phil’s thigh, pulling them more tightly together as they both found a groove with just enough pressure. Phil broke the kiss long enough to swear quietly, and then ducked his head to bite the tendons on Clint’s neck. Phil was so quiet, just breathless little whines panted out against Clint’s skin, but his whole body trembled in Clint’s arms, shivered against Clint’s chest. It was intoxicating, feeling Coulson letting go, feeling Phil begin coming apart. 

“Want you in me, baby,” Clint whispered into Phil’s hair. “Please, waited so long. _Please!_ ”

Another tiny whimper from Phil and he pressed back in against Clint’s mouth, kiss gone sloppy with desire. Clint dug his nails in desperately, but Phil jerked himself out of Clint’s arms so fast that Clint was left kissing air for a moment. Watching Phil’s muscular ass ripple its way across the room _almost_ made up for the broken embrace. 

“I… hoped it wasn’t too presumptuous of me…” Phil pulled out his suitcase and rifled through the neatly folded clothing. He held up a very _full_ bottle of lube and an unopened box of condoms. “It’s been long enough that I was… completely out of supplies.”

“That.” Clint sat up, grin splitting his face. “That right there is the single sexiest thing about you.”

Phil stopped walking and tipped his head, eyebrows pulling together in a confused little frown. “That I have no sex life?”

The laugh that escaped Clint’s control made Phil blush.

“No, Phillip. That you think of everything, plan everything, are ready to take on anything and make it up as you go when things get out of hand.” Clint eyed the bottle and box in Phil’s hands. “Your competence is a huge turn-on.” Clint held his arms out and Phil dropped the box on the bed and crawled into the offered embrace. “It was the first thing about you that got under my skin. Well, after those gorgeous blue eyes of yours. There’s not one thing about you that doesn’t scream sex-appeal.”

The awkward little twist to Phil’s smile burned, and Clint grabbed one of Phil’s hands. 

“Here.” He guided Phil’s fingers to the hardness between his own legs. “This is what looking at you does to me, Phil. Want you so goddamned bad. But the rest? Makes it worth waiting around for three damned years to finally get you.”

Clint was pinned against the bed so suddenly that he couldn’t have fought his way free if he’d tried. Not that he was trying. Or tempted to try. Or even thinking of fighting. Phil’s mouth was hot against his for several long breaths, and then it pulled away and there was some muffled swearing as Phil wrestled the safety seal off of the lube. Clint shoved himself up to one elbow to observe.

“Shut up, Barton,” Phil snapped, when he finally twisted the cap back on and clicked open the lid. 

“Not saying a word, sir.”

Clint watched, fascinated, as some of the shine trickled over Phil’s fingers, spread and warmed by Phil’s thumb. Flopping back to the mattress as Phil pressed a hand to his chest, Clint opened his thighs and draped one leg over Phil’s bicep. He stopped breathing as Phil looked down at him and bit his lip. His lungs began working again, sucking in great gasps of air, when Phil leaned over him and those slick fingers began circling his opening. 

The next several moments were lost in the insistent fever of Phil’s mouth against Clint’s own and the teasing, fiery pressure of Phil’s fingers pressing gently into Clint’s body. Clint knew he was crying out, hips rocking as he chased every touch, whimpering when Phil’s lips drew out of the kiss to latch onto Clint’s shoulder, leaving a bruise that was likely to linger for days. He had no idea how long he hovered there, begging for more before Phil’s hand slowly pulled out and away, pumped twice over Clint’s cock, and then reached past Clint’s head for the prophylactics. 

There was another minor skirmish with packaging, and Clint huffed out a laugh when Phil muttered darkly, “Everything to do with sex should open as easy as you, babe.”

A bit of rattling and a few more muttered curses later, and Phil was back, looming over Clint.

“How do you want me?” Clint asked, hands greedy as they trailed over Phil’s chest and shoulders. He ran one hand up the side of Phil’s neck, mentally filing away the patches of skin that made the muscles tense, made goosebumps pebble the smoothness. 

“Just like this,” Phil answered. He leaned down and placed one chaste kiss on Clint’s bottom lip and then rolled to his knees, looped his forearms under Clint’s thighs, and lined up. 

Everything after that was pressure and a slow burn, intensity and the relief of finally being filled. Clint arched and growled. 

“Oh, fuck yes! Fuck!” Clint was held tightly, helpless in Phil’s grip, his own hands scratching for purchase on the covers below him. “God, this is what I’ve needed! Fuck! Oh, Fuck! Fuck me! Yes!”

Phil was nearly as quiet while fucking him as he’d been before, but his face… _Oh, god! His face!_ His lips were barely parted, red from kisses and bites. His cheeks were flushed red, and his perpetually perfect hair was ruffled and sweat-drenched. The glow from his face trailed down his neck, across his freckled shoulders, and into the whorls Clint’s fingers had left in the hair on his chest. His eyes were dark, but so focused, so full of wonder and happiness and lust. Clint found the intensity, the emotion-- and all aimed at him-- breathtaking. 

“Most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.” Clint reached for Pil’s shoulders. Phil released Clint’s thighs, curling over him, arms circling around, mouth closing on Clint’s. With his legs wrapped around Phil’s hips, one hand locked on the back of Phil’s neck to keep him close, Clint let go of all restraint, clinging and moaning as Phil fucked into him hard. He lost track of time, listening to Phil’s whispered panting, rocking up to meet each thrust.

“Touch me, Phil,” Clint begged as the burn began to build in his belly, as his balls tightened. “Please, baby, need…”

Shifting enough to slip one big hand between their bodies, Phil quickly managed to counter the rhythm of his hips with his wrist, and Clint shouted wordlessly as he rocked between the sensations. _Nearly there, nearly there, nearly there…_ Clint bit his lip to keep from drowning out the the tiny growls Phil had begun to make.

“‘M so close, Clint,” Phil growled quietly against Clint’s neck. The desperation, the raw need in Phil’s voice was what finally took Clint over the cliff. He heard a breathy little sigh from Phil, and they were both gone, nearly together. Clint was nearly sobbing against Phil’s shoulder as his orgasm rolled through his body, lighting ever nerve on fire, fizzing out the edges of his vision.

As they both began to come down, Phil collapsed very slowly on top of Clint’s chest, face pressed into the sweat-damp skin of Clint’s neck. After several minutes of both of them lying very still and panting, Phil pulled out very carefully and flopped to the side, making a face at the mess stuck to both of them as he rolled onto his back.

“Well.” Phil blinked at the ceiling.

“Yup,” was Clint’s brilliant comeback.

“With a bit of rest, I might be able to go again.” Phil knew he was blushing as he said it, but something about Clint made Phil hope that years of frustration and longing would overrule age and biology.

“Yup.” Clint rolled to nuzzle into Phil’s neck. “You know, though, we’ve got two full days. Just for this. Just for you and me. And we’ve got that giant tub over there that I’m betting we’ll be able to get creative with. And then…”

Phil turned his head and smiled, a full, warm smile. Clint’s eyes went wide and soft, and Phil stretched his neck to kiss Clint’s soft mouth, gently, just because he could. Just because this was allowed. Just because he wanted to. Clint sighed softly, breath tickling across Phil’s lips.

“I just have to ask you one thing.” Clint pulled away far enough to talk, tips of their noses still brushing. “Was I your first choice for this mission? Was it just for the joke? Or… Why me?”

“You would have been my first choice, in any case, but...” Phil shifted uncomfortably. He knew this discussion was coming, and he knew how wrong it could go. He didn’t want Clint to think he hadn’t earned the promotion on his own, that he hadn’t deserved it. “Some of my reasons were entirely selfish. It would raise your clearance level, if Fury approved-- which I knew he would. That made you no longer my subordinate, put us on level ground. And I figured you would understand the, hmm, provocative nature of the name.”

Clint chuckled softly and rested his palm against Phil’s ribs, stroking lightly. “Then thank you. I figured you had something to do with the promotion.”

“No.” Phil sat up. “No. Don’t put that on me. You earned you. You’ve worked for it. It’s your accomplishment. This mission, asking for you for this mission, moved it forward by a few months at most. Likely less. You know Fury wouldn’t have signed off, otherwise.”

He brushed his fingers across Clint’s lips and smiled when Clint nipped the pads.

“There really was no one better for this job than you, though, Clint.” Phil cupped Clint’s cheek, trying desperately to explain with his eyes as much as his voice. “Your concern for the animals themselves. How you always prefer to find the non-lethal solution. Your ability to watch everything at once. There’s no one else I will ever trust to have my back out there more than you. No one else I’d let see me, er…” Phil could feel the heat in his cheeks and ears as he blushed. “Petting crias.”

Clint laughed and wriggled, settling himself deeper in the mattress and rucked up bedding. 

“So what’s next for us?” He trailed his fingers over Phil’s kneecap, raising goosebumps at the lightness of his touch. “Where are we going from here?”

“Hopefully to the shower, first.” Phil scratched at the drying flakes on his stomach. “And, after that, well, we’ll figure it out as we go along. But Clint, I wouldn’t have given you that key if I didn’t want you there. Often.” He bit his lip, trying to figure out if it was too soon to voice his hope. “Permanently, if you want.”

“Can I have some time to think about it?” Clint climbed off the bed, gesturing toward the bathroom as he held out a hand for Phil. 

Phil took his hand and rose shakily to his feet. “Of course. All the time you need. I don’t want you to feel pressured or obligated or…”

He managed to shut himself up by shoving his lips against Clint’s. And they stood, skin pressed to skin, mouths shifting gently, hands stroking and squeezing, for several minutes.

“You know, babe,” Clint’s voice was thoughtful as he broke away, leading the way to the shower. “Your place is bigger than mine. Maybe we could fit a llama in there.”

“No, Clint.”

“Come on! They got us together! We should really have at least one!”

“No, Clint.” Phil rolled his eyes and reached for a pair of fluffy towels from the rack.

“Fine.” Clint sighed dramatically. “Whatever.” He hunched his shoulders, eyebrows drawn together, pouting facetiously as he reached into the shower to turn the water on to warm. He turned back toward Phil with his scowl still firmly in place, but a sparkle in his eyes.

Phil returned his glare with the little smile he’d perfected against enemy agents during intense interrogations, the one used to convey that he would be delighted to start with cutting off their toes and working his way up from there. Crossing his arms over his chest, Clint stuck his bottom lip out furthur; Phil laughed helplessly, dropped the towels on the floor, and wrapped both arms around Clint’s waist, pulling him close. Clint’s expression didn’t change, so Phil leaned in and kissed the pout off of Clint’s bottom lip. 

“You are ridiculous,” Phil told him, and he rubbed the tips of their noses together. Clint finally broke, laughing and returning the embrace, hands splaying across Phil’s back.

“Oh, so” Clint paused to take one tiny kiss. “I’ve thought about it.”

“That quickly?” Phil lowered his hands to grab a double-handful of Clint’s muscular ass.

“I _thought_ I knew the answer when you asked, but I did want to know your stance on pet llamas.” He grinned and leaned his forehead in to rest against Phil’s. “I _suppose_ I can accept the ‘no two-ll beast but Phillip rule.’ How soon do you want me?”

 

Coda:

Clint let himself in through the front door, a box under one arm and two bags thrown over his other shoulder. 

“Back here!” Phil’s voice called down the hall. 

“This is the last of it,” Clint told him, walking into the bedroom to find Phil refolding the t-shirts he’d removed from one half of his dresser. Clint dropped the box on the floor and turned to put the duffle down on the foot of the bed. 

He froze.

“Phil?”

“Yes?”

“Is that your Japanese llama?” Clint pointed at the bit of white faux fur sticking out from under the sheet on the unmade bed.

Phil’s face flushed pink. 

“Yeah?”

“How long _have_ you been sleeping with your own beast?” Clint threw himself onto the bed as he started laughing. Phil crawled over him, straddling his hips and leaning down for a kiss.

The blush headed toward scarlet as Phil sat up. 

“I… think I brought him home with me while I was still on the pain meds. I must’ve still been holding him when I crawled into bed, and I guess I just forgot to remove him after that.” Phil tried to regain some semblance of dignity, but Clint bucked him off and rolled on top of him, kissing him breathless.

“I _knew_ it!” Clint was practically crowing. “I _knew_ the llamas would get through to you eventually! You’ve spent over a month thinking ‘bout me every time you got in bed.”

“I’ve spent _years_ thinking of you every time I’ve gotten into bed, Clint.” Phil dragged Clint back down.

From under the covers, the llama calmly informed them that the budgetary portfolio was due by five o’clock.

**Author's Note:**

> After a few too many misspellings of “Phillip,” [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar) finally snapped out “He’s a Beast, not a Priest!” Which is an entire pwp in one line, truly. So I took it and ran, expecting to end up with a pwp. And then it got bigger, so maybe a 5+1. And then, well, this happened. 
> 
> With grateful thanks to [Kathar](http://kat-har.tumblr.com) for making me finish this when it was 8000 words long and I wanted to write, “They banged. The End.” With thanks also for the careful beta that took this from something I liked to something I’m very proud of having written.
> 
> And, as always, thank YOU for reading. Comments and critique are always welcome, and your kudos give me happy smiles. 
> 
> Come play with me on Tumblr at [faeleverte](http://faeleverte.tumblr.com).


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